


Tarnished

by calathea



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-28
Updated: 2009-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-05 09:57:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/40425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calathea/pseuds/calathea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Between the shifting bodies, Fraser saw the edges of a tempest - a heavy soled shoe, a blue shirt lying bloodied and torn across an unmoving chest. (Written for DS Sekrit Santa exchange 2005)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tarnished

The GTO slid to a halt outside the Consulate, but Ray didn't even glance out the side window at Fraser. Ray said nothing when he opened the rear door of the car for Dief, and nothing when he slid into the passenger seat, just signalled to pull out and rejoined the flow of traffic, stepping hard on the accelerator. Fraser glanced over, seeing Ray's face white and rigid with some emotion, and forebore from saying anything until they arrived at their destination, a grimy blind alley branching off from an equally squalid street. The road was blocked by police cars, ambulances, and a crush of humanity gazing on destruction with avid attention, interspersed with the glassy eyes of TV cameras and well-shod reporters.

Ray pushed through them all without comment or courtesy, and Fraser found himself nodding and apologising as the crowd parted reluctantly ahead of him, even though he could see Ray's shoulders tensing and his neck muscles twitching at every polite "Pardon me" that he uttered.

A half dozen uniformed police officers guarded the barrier at the mouth of the alley, their expressions cold and stiff.

Beyond them, Fraser saw the lights flash and pop as the forensics team took photos of the bodies strewn limply on the ground. Three were young men, barely into adulthood. The baggy sweater of the one nearest to Fraser bore the insignia of a local street gang, soaked with blood. A paramedic by the dead man's side was packing his equipment slowly into a plastic case, his eyes on the activity at the end of the alley, furthest from the street. The largest throng of police and other personnel was gathered there. Between the shifting bodies, Fraser saw the edges of a tempest - a heavy soled shoe, a blue shirt lying bloodied and torn across an unmoving chest. A badge, lying in a puddle of water filmed with blood.

* * * * * *

The next four days were a blur as Ray and Fraser plunged into the maelstrom. Every hour scratched away at the surface of Officer Tremaine, past the image of the clean, upstanding cop, patient with the lost and vulnerable kids who haunted his inner city beat; the model father, mourned by his three young sons, by the Little League baseball team he coached, by the church congregation near his home. The picture chipped and cracked with every moment of the investigation, every little discovery: the contents of the locker at the 27th, a well-folded newspaper turned to the sports pages, receipts and dockets from gambling spots all over Chicago dating back weeks, months, the mixture of wins and losses that Fraser calculated himself showing Tremaine deep in debt. A roll of cash, too thick for a beat officer's salary, shoved into a spare pair of shoes in Tremaine's closet at home. The evidence report, listing only one gun found in that damp, reeking alley. The autopsy report, couched in cautious, medical terms, suggesting that the three youths had been shot in the back while fleeing the scene, that Tremaine's own fatal injuries were self-inflicted. The frightened shop-keeper on Tremaine's beat, offering to pay Ray the same sum he had paid Tremaine.

It was this last that brought the storm that had been threatening in the tense lines of Ray's shoulders and the cynical turn of his lips down on to their heads at last.

"Do I look like I take money?" Ray demanded, stepping into the smaller man's personal space. "Do I look like a dirty cop to you?"

The shop-keeper cowered, and shook his head. "N-no," he stuttered, terrified, "No, of course not."

"Then shut your mouth." Ray was still up in the man's face, his hands clenching and flexing. "Just shut up."

The man backed away a little further, his body now pressed into the counter. "Yes. Yes, of course."

Fraser placed a hand on Ray's arm. Ray shook him off with a noise like a growl, but moved away from the shop-keeper, who let out a shaking breath. "Call for a squad car," Ray said, tossing his cell phone to Fraser. "We need to get a statement at the station for this."

Fraser dialled the number, and asked for the immediate dispatch of a squad car to assist. While he spoke, Ray prowled the tiny shop, his movements jerky and tense.

"You," Ray said, pointing suddenly at the shop-keeper again, causing the man to stumble backwards once more, "You will not mention that you offered me money. You will not mention anything about me. You will just tell them what you said about Tremaine, and you will give us names of other people you know who will do the same."

The man rolled his eyes over to Fraser, his expression terrified. "I.. I can't. I can't tell the police," he pleaded.

"You have nothing…" Fraser started, placatingly, but was overridden by Ray's furious answer.

"You will go and tell them," Ray threatened, "Or I will tell them you tried to bribe a police officer. It's a crime, you know. You'll go to jail."

A black and white squad car pulled up outside, and Ray went out to speak to the officers who emerged from the vehicle.

Fraser looked apologetically at the shop-keeper. "It's been a very difficult week. I'm sure he didn't mean it."

The shop-keeper nodded, but didn't smile. His eyes tracked Ray's movements outside on the sidewalk. The discussion with the officers seemed to have degenerated into some kind of argument.

"Do you require any assistance locking up?" asked Fraser. "There will be questions, at the station. It might take some time."

The man shook his head. "My brother is in the back. He can run the shop." As though summoned by his words, another man appeared from the room behind the counter. Fraser accompanied the shop-keeper out to the sidewalk. The uniformed officers were waiting, their expressions grim. Fraser glanced along the street, but there was no sign of the GTO or Ray's familiar blond head.

"Detective Vecchio left?" he asked, politely.

"Yeah," the larger of the two uniforms responded, laconically. "He took off a minute ago. Didn't leave a message."

There was a silence, broken only by the crackle of the police radio clipped to the squad car dashboard. "I shall return to the Consulate, then," Fraser replied, finally. The uniform nodded, and turned to assist the shop-keeper into the vehicle.

"Constable Fraser," the man said, as Fraser turned away. "Ask your partner, when you see him, what a bent cop is supposed to look like." Then he climbed into the car. Long after the vehicle had disappeared from view, Fraser remained standing on the sidewalk, watching where it had passed.

* * * * * *

The hallway of Ray's building was uninspiring, to say the least, but an improvement on the cold drizzle falling outside. Fraser had spent the remainder of the day at the Consulate standing guard duty in the rain; punishment, it seemed, for spending so much time this week working on Ray's case. Despite a shower and clean street clothes, Fraser still felt cold and damp around the edges, and the smell of wet wool seemed to linger on his skin. Dief had declined to accompany him on his errand this evening, and although Fraser had chastised him for sloth, it had been a half-hearted lecture at best. He too would have preferred to remain in the stuffy confines of the Consulate tonight, had it not been for Ray's cellular phone in his pocket. He knew how vital Ray's phone was to him.

The first knock on Ray's door had no effect. The music blaring within was loud and angry, and the rap of his knuckles on wood was drowned by the heavy bass beat. His second knock was therefore more aggressive.

Ray was already speaking when he opened the door. "What the hell do you want, Fraser?" His hair was aggressively spiky, his voice loud and harsh.

Fraser held the phone out. "You left this with me when you left Mr. Ahmed's shop so precipitately."

Ray squinted at him, but didn't reach out to take the phone. "Preci--? Yeah, I took off."

They looked at each other for another long moment. "Well. I should. That is…" said Fraser, uncertain.

Ray just turned his back on the door, leaving it open, and went to sit on the sofa. Taking this as an invitation, Fraser followed him in, shutting the door quietly behind him. Ray was sprawled, his body liquid and boneless on his sofa. On his way back to his seat he had picked up a half-empty fifth of whisky, which now hung loosely between the finger and thumb of his right hand.

Fraser took his hat off, and came to stand near the kitchen counter. It was littered with papers, pizza boxes crusted with tomato and cheese, a scattered handful of M&amp;Ms.

"I liked him, you know." Ray said, suddenly. "I thought he was a good guy. Too good, maybe. Always saying how the kids on the street just needed someone to believe in them."

Fraser said nothing, just laid his hat down on a pile of papers covered in Ray's scrawled handwriting.

"And he had these photos of his kids. If you even _mentioned_ his kids, he'd get them out." Ray lifted the bottle to his lips and gulped. "Used to come round all the time with raffle tickets and shit like that. Christmas fund-raising for the homeless. Places for street kids to go."

Ray took another swallow of whisky. "Not a great cop. They'd have said that. At his funeral. A great cop." He coughed, set down his bottle. He fumbled with a packet of cigarettes, sifted through the detritus on his coffee table for matches without success. He tossed the packet back on to the table and took another long pull at the whisky bottle. "Not a great cop. Didn't do anything special."

Fraser remained silent, just listening to Ray's rasping voice. "Not even a good guy, in the end."

Fraser cleared his throat. "He still loved his children. He still helped the homeless."

Ray made a furious, choked off sound. "Who cares, Fraser? Who cares about that when he was _stealing_, and _killing kids_?"

The limp arm lifted again, as if to raise the bottle to his lips again, but suddenly, shockingly, the muscles tensed, and Ray threw the bottle hard against the wall. It shattered, large pieces of glass crashing into the wooden floor, whisky dripping down the wall.

Ray stood, a little unsteadily, and glared full-face at Fraser. "Want to think the best of him, do you? He was a bad guy, Fraser. Not a boy scout. A bad guy. A bad cop. He took, and he was caught, and he killed himself, and he killed three other people."

Ray's expression was terrible, anger and bitterness and some kind of bone-deep tired, all burning through his blue eyes. "You think people are good, Fraser? You think cops are good people? Huh?" He sneered, his lips twisting cynically, "What am I saying? You're a fucking boy scout. Of course you do."

Fraser sucked in a breath, and ducked his head. Turning, he picked up his hat, placed the phone down on the counter and left, closing the door gently behind him.

Outside, he paused. The rain had grown heavier again while he'd been inside, and fell like a curtain from the overhang on Ray's apartment building. He slipped his hat on and headed out on to the street, determinedly thinking of nothing in particular. Two blocks away from Ray's building, over the noise of a passing car and the rain, he heard his name being called.

"Fraser! Fraser! Wait!"

Ray was jogging, stumbling a little as he moved towards Fraser. "Fraser!"

Fraser stopped, turning to wait for his friend. Ray was breathing heavily when he caught up. "Frase…." He held up a finger. "OK, hang on." He puffed out of a few long breaths. "Man, how fast do you walk?"

Fraser shuffled his feet a little. "You ran after me to ask me that?"

"No, dumbass. I stopped you to say I was sorry." Despite his words, Ray looked anything but sorry. He still looked angry, still jittery and half-despairing. His rebellious hair was half-flattened by the rain, and looked even wilder than usual.

Fraser looked down. "I do know, you know."

"You know I'm sorry?"

"I know that not all police officers are good men." Fraser met Ray's eyes. "You could say I know it even better than you do. I know it _personally_. There was the man who killed my father. And there was my father himself. And then, of course, there's me."

Ray flinched, his hands clenching into fists. "What the hell do you mean by that? "

"I would have taken," Fraser responded, "I would have run. I tried."

"No." Ray answered, his voice tight with fury. "You won't make yourself Tremaine. You will not."

"But I am like Tremaine, Ray." said Fraser, sighing. "Just because you don't want to see it, doesn't make it untrue. I would have left with her. I would have stolen. It took a bullet in my back to stop me. Who knows what it will take next time."

Ray's hands fisted in his shirt, and Fraser found himself dragged close to Ray, until their bodies almost touched. He put a hand on Ray's shoulder, partly for balance, partly to try to ward off the anger he could see Ray preparing to unleash on him. Ray shook him slightly with every word. "You. Are. Not. Like. Tremaine." He pulled Fraser a little closer. "If you say you are again, I'll hit you. I swear I will. You're like one of those guys in the movies, knights, with their shining armor. Don't try to tell me you're really the bad guy."

Fraser sighed. "Oh Ray. If I ever was, the armor would be thoroughly tarnished by now."

He looked away from Ray's eyes, the only privacy that his proximity to Ray allowed him. Ray's hair was wilder than ever, partly flattened by the rain, the rest sticking up in all directions as if to mimic his inner turmoil. The rain had dampened Ray's cheeks, and when Fraser looked back into his partner's eyes, droplets hung on his eyelashes like stars.

Even as Fraser returned his gaze to meet Ray's, Ray's attention was shifting. He glanced down a little, licked his lips. A car approached, splashing noisily through the puddles, the headlights throwing a moment's harsh light over Ray's expression before passing by. Fraser jerked away.

Ray stood unaided, swaying slightly. "OK, god, it's wet out. You can't walk in this. We'll go back to my place, you can have a cup of coffee, or tea, or whatever, and wait for a cab. I can't drive you, not with as much as I've drunk."

Fraser said nothing, just looked at Ray's hand holding his wrist.

"Come on, let's go home." Ray said, tugging at him again.

And Fraser followed him.

* * * * * *

In the dim corridor outside Ray's apartment once more, Fraser thought to protest. "I could have hailed a taxi from the street, Ray."

Ray shook his head, fumbling with the lock on his door. "Not tonight, Fraser."

Once inside the room, Ray turned, caught at Fraser's wrist, and pulled him in, slamming the door shut behind him. He caught again at the front of Fraser's shirt, pulling them in until they were as close as they had been in the street, their bodies almost touching. This time Fraser did not jerk away when Ray's eyes dropped to his mouth, when the distance between their lips disappeared. He closed his eyes, and let his hand slide up to Ray's shoulder. At first, the kiss was an exploration, a discovery. Ray tasted of whisky and Chicago rain.

Then Ray's hands slid into his hair, the long fingers massaging his scalp, the bracelet dangling from one wrist tickling his ear. Subtly, the fingers pressed him closer, moulded and shaped the kiss until he couldn't bear to keep his eyes closed, until it was too intense to bear just the one sense concentrated on the connection of their lips and tongues and teeth. Fraser opened his eyes a little, seeing the blurry gold of the fan of Ray's eyelashes against his cheek, the curl of his own fingers gripping the seam of Ray's shirt.

Ray's thumb was stroking over his cheekbone, and he leaned harder into the caressing hand, closing his eyes again as their lips parted.

"You done this before?" Ray asked, his lips close to Fraser's ear. "You know what we're doing?"

Fraser tensed, his lax fingers tightening their grip on Ray's shirt. He tugged Ray closer. "I'm not a boy scout. Not a knight in shining armor. Not chaste. Not pure. I have an _extensive_ repertoire of sexual activities."

An amused puff of warm air blew in his ear. "Extensive?"

He shoved at Ray's shoulder, but Ray only swayed back, before using the momentum to push Fraser hard against the front door. "Prove it," he murmured, "Prove it."

With that, he pulled away from Fraser, and in one swift move, shrugged off his jacket. He toed off his shoes, and walked towards the bedroom, shedding his t-shirt as he walked. Fraser watched him, watched him walk away without a backwards glance. As Ray disappeared through the open door of the bedroom, he let his own jacket slide off his shoulders, and laid it neatly on the back of the armchair on his way to join Ray.

* * * * * *

He woke long before Ray the next morning. Ray was a restless sleeper, and he was unaccustomed to sharing a bed, let alone with someone who seemed intent on kicking him energetically at regular intervals. He wanted to wake Ray, but remembering Ray's consumption of alcohol, and the deep circles under his eyes the previous night, he did not. Instead he rose as quietly as he could, pulled on his jeans and a t-shirt, aware that both were wrinkled and much the worse for wear for having been left damp on Ray's floor overnight. He stepped out into the living room.

The smell of whisky was still strong, and large shards of glass littered the floor. As did items of clothing that they had discarded on the way to the bed. Fraser smiled in recollection.

Moving to the kitchen, he sought and found some basic cleaning materials, and began the task of tidying up a little. Finding a sheet of newspaper, he gathered the largest shards of the whisky bottle carefully. When he opened the garbage can to drop in the paper-wrapped bundle, though, something golden caught his eye. Ray's badge, resting on top of pizza crusts and coffee grounds.

Fraser reached in and pulled it out.

"I was pissed." Ray said, from the doorway to the bedroom. He was leaning against the doorjamb, his lean body clad only in boxer shorts. "Pissed and drunk, and sick about Tremaine. And so I threw it away."

Fraser cleared his throat. "I see."

Ray walked gingerly across the floor, checking for glass at every footstep. "Do you? I've thrown my badge in the garbage a few times since I joined the force." He shrugged. "I never mean it. I always get it back out again the next day."

Fraser said nothing, just polished the surface of the badge with the hem of his t-shirt. Ray walked over to join him by the kitchen counter.

"I like my badge, Fraser. It may not be too shiny any more, and the paint's kind of chipped off in places, and there was that thing with the badge and the fish guts and the salami, but it's mine, even if it's not perfect. Even if it's… it's…" Ray gestured vaguely.

"Tarnished?" Fraser offered, one corner of his mouth quirking upwards.

"Yeah, that." Ray reached out and took the badge away from Fraser, dropping it onto the counter beside them, and then reached to put a hand on Fraser's cheek. "Even if it's tarnished."

Fraser swallowed and nodded. "Of course, Ray."


End file.
